


Hands of Blue (2)

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Series: 2x2 [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Biting, Blood, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, First Time, Frottage, Hate Sex, M/M, Scratching, Tentabulges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re used to all-bark-and-no-bite Vantas, blustering blowhole with nothing to back it up Vantas. This Vantas, the one who looks at you like he wants to eat you alive and chew you into little pieces and dig into your bones with his fangs and spit you out when he’s done, surges up to meet you, mashing his mouth on your lips in an uncoordinated assault of spit and teeth.</p><p>Your dick hurts.</p><p>[Backstory for To by Too.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands of Blue (2)

“Not bad,” you admit, scoping out Vantas’s room from behind your shades. It’s nearly identical to the one you share with Egbert—furniture the same, layout an exact mirror. You’re really not sure why he sounded so excited over Pesterchum. “Y’all have beds,” you notice, kicking the door closed.

“You sound surprised.” You just look down at him, raising an eyebrow over gold rims. A five-inch height advantage has its benefits sometimes, and one of them is making him feel like a puny insect compared to you. “Yes, we have human sleep slats. Do you know how many years it took—“

You’re still stuck on troll terminology. “Sleep slats.” Maybe you can come up with more euphemisms if you want. Other terms for mattress… hm. “Night cushions.” In the background, you’re vaguely aware that Vantas is still nattering to himself. Nah, not quite right. Needs something dirtier about it. “Boot-knockers.” Not quite right.

“The fuck are you babbling about?”

“Concupiscent platforms,” you try again.

Karkat’s entire face goes this very delicate shade of red close to the color of your eyes. “Yes, okay, that’s one translation, but could you maybe not be an asshole for three whole seconds and actually listen to me?”

“Nah.” Instead, you run your hand along his bed. His sheets are kinda like the ones you had as a kid, covered with card symbols. Sharply made, too. How anal retentive does this guy plan on being? “When’d you move in?”

“Yesterday.” And yet this place still looks immaculate.

When you look to the other side of the room, it’s completely empty. Just a camp pallet on the shitty dorm bed frame, open drawers hanging out of the desk, no decorations to speak of. “And your roommate?”

“Sollux,” Karkat explains. “Still at some shitty summer camp for grubs who piss their shitty asswraps and masturbate furiously to tilde-ath code.”

“There’s an image.” The freak probably does get off to coding, though. “So this place is gonna have to wait for a christening for a while, right?”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean? Some weird human religious ritual of consecrating a living space? We don’t have room in here to bury a garden gnome—“

You roll your eyes behind your shades. Karkat… takes some getting used to. He’s almost as talkative as you are, and that’s saying something. “The other meaning,” you say quietly, looking at him from over your shades.

He freezes. Sputters a little bit. Can’t seem to take his gaze off your peepers. Probably has some kinda sick fetish for seeing his eye color on other people. “What are you trying to say? That neither of us are ever going to pail in here? Sollux, fine, he’s an asshole, he probably couldn’t keep anyone in his mating quadrants for two days straight, but—“

You can’t help it—you snort out a laugh, pushing your shades back up the bridge of your nose. “You seriously think you’re gonna get laid?”

“That’s the other thing—the human fascination with—“

“Don’t start on me with _human fascination_ ,” you mock him, “the first conversation we ever had was about doing interspecies nasty and you were the one that brought it up.”

“Okay, first of all, that was _not_ the first conversation I had with you—not from my point of view, and B,” he stutters into the second half of his sentence, “why the fuck do you care whether I’m getting laid or not? You are—you’re disgusting, fucking reprehensible, it’s like you want to _eavesdrop_ on my personal affairs or something—“

“Watch out for that blackrom, Vantas. I don’t care what they say, eventually the rhythm really is gonna get you.”

Karkat, at a temporary loss for words, lets out a guttural scream and flips you a magnificent double-bird, one hand perfectly forming a Texas shape. “You think you know fucking everything, well guess what. You know _nothing_ , Dave Strider. You don’t know jack shit about—about me, about my entire fucking _culture_ , you think it’s all a laugh a minute. Don’t you fucking _smirk_ at me with those fucking _lips_ of yours—“

“Again with the lips?” Seriously, the first time you ever talked to him, he brought up your mouth twice. He’s obsessed with it or something.

“Shut up,” he starts ranting, “shut up shut up shut up,” and the entire time he steps closer and closer to you, the rage practically rolling off of him like he’s a tiny candy-corn-horned locomotive building up a cloud of angry steam.

Does he seriously think he can take you in a strife? You glitch half a blade out of your strife specibus, find it easily in hand by the time he’s within swinging range. “How about you come over here and make me,” you mutter. Not exactly the most mature comeback, but Karkat’s being a little bitch right now.

Karkat reaches forward. Grabs the collar of your shirt in his fist. He looks to his fist, then up at your face, then back down to his hand, like he can’t believe what he just did. His pupils are blown, red-ringed irises staring up at you like a RROD waiting to happen.

He just touched you.

You want to _ruin him_.

You do the same to him as he did to you, grabbing a fistful of his turtleneck in your grasp. He tugs on you and you swear you can feel fabric rip. But he doesn’t stop grabbing. It’s your shoulders next. Your neck, where an accidental swipe of his claws leaves two perfectly beading red lines on your throat. It burns, and you make an indecent noise that starts somewhere in your chest. Fuck, you’re going to get a boner if he keeps doing that, god you hate him so much.

What he does next kind of surprises you. You’re used to all-bark-and-no-bite Vantas, blustering blowhole with nothing to back it up Vantas. This Vantas, the one who looks at you like he wants to eat you alive and chew you into little pieces and dig into your bones with his fangs and spit you out when he’s done, surges up to meet you, mashing his mouth on your lips in an uncoordinated assault of spit and teeth.

Your dick hurts.

You sink your incisors into his lower lip. He growls against your mouth, a shudder you can feel shaking your own frame. His hands are insistent, hot, ripping away every single protection you have and searing you to your core. Every scratch he gives you burns like hellfire and you can’t get enough. He seems like he’s about to say something, but you chase down his mouth, kiss him hard. “Don’t stop,” and your hands don’t seem to know where to grab, seeking blindly for random parts of his body.

Your shirt is totally ruined, hanging from your torso in cotton shreds, and would you look at that, you absolutely, one hundred percent don’t give a shit. Shirts can be replaced. Vantas can’t. Not the way he growls when you start pushing up his shirt, the breath he sucks in when you hit what feels like scars along the jutting line of his ribcage. You dig in with your nails and he whines, the sound turning feral when you scratch just like he’s doing to you. “Holy _fuck_ ,” he breathes out when your mouth falls away from his.

To keep him shutting up, keep those glorious animalistic noises coming, you nuzzle down the collar of his turtleneck—then bite. Hard. Harder than a human could stand. So hard you feel like you could almost chew on his skin like this. Vantas makes a sound like a particularly pissed-off cicada. It shouldn’t turn you on and fucking hell does it ever turn you on. “Looks like we’re christening your place after all.”

The troll is surprisingly strong for his small stature, manhandling you and actually, physically tossing you onto his mattress. Of course, you’re not going down without a fight, and when he pounces on you, you take his momentum and turn it to your advantage. Now he’s the one on his back, and you’re sprawled out over him and admiring the mauling you gave his throat. “Fuck, do you really want to—“

You take one of his hands and shove it up against your crotch. Yeah. Let’s see what he does with that. From the second-hand accounts you’ve heard, troll dicks aren’t anything like what a human has, but they both swell up when their owners get excitable. He has to be able to feel what he’s doing to you. “That enough of an answer for you?” Karkat doesn’t answer, just rubs a little circle against your fly and pulls your hair to bare your throat. “Oh, fuck yes—“

It cuts off into a strangled sound when he actually sinks the points of his fangs into the sensitive skin at your throat. Just the points. He’s disciplined. Somehow, this makes your dick even harder. You’re going to be a bloody mess later and that just makes you smile. You have a screw or ten loose, but when it feels this good, your entire everything ends up doing a stellar impression of something that doesn’t give a single iota of a gold-plated shit.

Enough horsing around. Time to get to the goods. You kind of know what you’re getting into when you unbutton the fly of his pants, but it’s still kind of a shock to feel something _thrashing_ against your touch. And it definitely doesn’t prepare you for the way Karkat’s already soaked through his boxers. You’re not doing much better, but still, your precum doesn’t look like blood. It takes a few seconds of heavy blinking and cognitive dissonance before you shake your head and charge on, full steam ahead to Boner City. Population two and no one else in the entire fucking universe right now, as far as you’re concerned.

At least Karkat gets the idea, but he nearly breaks your zipper trying to get in your pants. “Come on,” he mutters, then lets out a mash of syllables that you don’t recognize. You’re sure if you knew Alternian, you’d be blushing like a schoolgirl at the inventive string of cursing he just let out.

You just kiss him again. And again. And again. His mouth tastes coppery, salty, tart—and you realize that’s the taste of your own blood. On his tongue. Your dick could not be any harder if it were made of adamantium. You hungrily seek out the taste inside his mouth, tongue seeking out every part of him as your hand plunges into no-man’s-land.

His tentacle instantly wraps itself around your wrist before you even get the chance to say hello to the tip with your fingertips. “Eager much?” you goad him.

He bites down, hard, on your lip. More flavor floods your mouth. In your impatience, you actually hump against his hand. “Says the human who’s rutting against me,” he mutters, and you can _feel_ his smirk against your lips.

Nope. He doesn’t get away with that. You try to get a grasp on what you can feel at his crotch, but Lalonde wasn’t kidding—it really is kind of like a tentacle. Except instead of suckers, it has kind of bony ridges against the underside. It’s pretty affectionate, though, and it seems to know what it wants. When you’re not touching it, you can feel it curl in on itself.

“I got an idea.” Well, to call it an idea would disrespect all the intellectual giants who came before you and invented actual useful shit like content aggregators, Wikipedia, and eBubbles. This is a notion, and probably a stupid one at that, but if his peenor is actually flexible like that, articulated enough to make those movements… You shove your pants down around your hips, then pull down Karkat’s to mirror yours. This whole time and this is the furthest you’ve stripped.

“Shit,” Karkat whispers against your mouth, hips still rising from the bed even after you’re done with his clothes. “Fucking do it already, I—oh…”

Yeah, that shuts him up. You rut your bare hips together, and your boner juts up against his thingy, and it—yeah. It’s still just as affectionate as it was with your hand, wrapping slickly around your sperm spigot, and once you get over the appearance of what looks like blood on your member (which requires closing your eyes and blocking out the image) it… wow. You thrust and “wow,” that feels fucking amazing. Wet and hot—redblooded American, or maybe he just runs hotter than other trolls, apparently blood color has something to do with core temp or something? You tune out Harley’s lectures most of the time…

Karkat actually squeezes you with his bulge and all your errant thoughts fall out of your head entirely. Good. He’s forcing you to focus, mauling your mouth with his teeth and not entirely on accident, hands seeking under your shirt to find… something. You don’t have ridges under your ribs like he does, but when he finds your nipples you jolt. “Yeah?” he breathes.

“Yeah,” you affirm. And wonder of wonders, he can actually be gentle if he wants to. His fingertips are calloused, kind of rough, but still. Someone else is touching your man-nipples. You… never knew you were sensitive there. Okay. That’s. After just a little prodding attention, they’re already starting to get hard.

And then Karkat pinches them gently between thumb and forefinger.

Your hips jerk against his, essentially fucking yourself into the nice little cockring his dick made for you. It’s not exactly hot in here, but your hair’s starting to stick to your forehead, the back of your neck. His skin is slick, not just with the smear of red translucent jelly all over his stomach from his leaking bulge but with sweat. “I can—oh, shit, Strider, I can smell your fucking _pheromones_ ,” and the way he says it so desperately has you thrusting against him again.

When he twists, you’re certain you’re about to lose your shit. God, you can feel him _pulsing_ around your shaft, and the point of his bulge teases up against the sensitive spot right under the flare of the head. “You wanna keep that up?” you ask him, breathless.

“Problem, Strider?” Oh, if you had a hand free you could punch him for that smug-ass tone. As it is, you want eight and you only have two. One’s propping you up from his—haha—concupiscent platform, but you move the other from its aimless wandering and close it around Karkat’s bulge around your beef bazooka. These aliens have some awful sex noises, but it gives you a sick sort of satisfaction to know you’re the one making him fucking _trill_ like that. “Harder, you limp-fronded stooge,” he says, and yeah, that’s close enough to a moan for you to know how much this is affecting him.

He pinches harder. You squeeze. He bites your lip. You pick up the pace. The room fills with schlicking noises of your hand on his schlong on your sausage, grunts from you and chirring moans from him, the smell of sex and sweat and blood, August humidity and fogging breaths, stifling heat searing at each point of contact between you and him. Everything is fast and faster, time slipping out of your control, blood seeping from a gash you left in his lip. You hope he sees it every time he looks in the fucking mirror. You hope he feels it whenever he tries to speak. You hope it _scars_.

Karkat takes in a shuddering breath, holds it by biting his lip, and then. Then. His bulge makes a movement around you that you can only describe as a cramp, and what gushes from the tip looks so much like blood that you almost scream on reflex before the raw scent of musk hits you like a tsunami crashing into shore. He’s. He’s coming. Because you—because _you made him_. The look on his face is nothing but pained relief, eyebrows drawn together, stifled mewl in his throat.

Score one for Strider.

He twists one last time on your man-titties and you’re soon to follow, a surprised shout alongside your spurt. Not as much as his, and his wasn’t near a bucketload like you’d heard, but who gives a shit? Your cum is marking Karkat Vantas—mixed with his own, pooled on his stomach, one particularly enthusiastic jet splattered up one side of his chest. And he got there first. Because of you. You win everything forever.

You blink down at him, more than a little dazed. During all these shenanigans, your shades got knocked around on your face. Karkat takes a hand out from under the shredded remains of your shirt, rights them on your face again, carefully tucks the earpiece behind your ear. His bulge starts getting shy, but you let it cling to you as long as he fucking wants, even if you’re going soft. Your chests jostle together with every breath; you feel like you can’t get enough air in your lungs, like he’s stealing your oxygen. “Fuck,” Karkat manages to sneak into an exhale.

“Again?” Your turn to smirk down at him, exactly how you know he hates. “Not right now, honey, I have a migraine.” Karkat’s sheets are irreparably ruined. You look like you’ve just fucked a menstruating puma. You are delirious with the raw power you now hold in your hands—The Ability To Make Karkat Vantas Orgasm. Nothing else matters.

“You know,” he says idly, his voice still breathy, “that was just the concupiscent platform. We didn’t get to the four-legged device or the writing slat.”

“Or my room,” you add.

Vantas shows every single fang when he smiles.


End file.
